


Grease Lightning

by heyshalina



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Bartender Allison, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Has a Crush on Stiles, Derek Needs To Use His Words, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Everyone is friends, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt Stiles, Ice Cream Parlors, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Isaac can't flirt to save his life, Isaac has a crush on everyone, M/M, Mason has a crush on Stiles, Miscommunication, Oblivious Stiles, Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Shy Derek, Summer Romance, assholes in love, everyone is human, ice cream worker derek, like a work au, line cook stiles, mini golf/kitchen au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 23:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina
Summary: AU where Stiles and Derek are a line cook and an ice cream worker in the same kitchen building, they're really bad at the whole talking thing, and the food isn't the only thing making things steamy in there. They have no AC. Please help them..“I understand your logic, Allison, but Scott is a literal ray of sunshine and happiness, so an accurate comparison between him and me, the personification of fryer grease and insomnia, cannot be made.”





	Grease Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell I worked at an ice cream place hahahaha every inch of me is dying
> 
> this is NOT based on a true story (at that point my love life was sad), is COMPLETELY self-indulgent, and relies heavily on three headcanons I hold near and dear to my heart:
> 
> 1) Mason has a crush on Stiles (like we were /promised/)  
> 2) Derek is a shy asshole  
> 3) Isaac and Malia would have been GREAT with shared screentime (still bitter)
> 
> anyway please enjoy this took me a year to write because school is hard
> 
> this has absolutely nothing to do with Grease but it does include a summer romance and an exorbitant amount of fryer grease, so.

Stiles has a _routine_ , goddamn it.

He gets up in the morning, chugs two mugs of coffee and a bowl of mini wheats, watches two episodes of Rick and Morty, puts on his big boy shoes (non-slip and butt ugly) and goes to work. He slings burgers and flicks fryer grease at Isaac when he’s not looking, makes himself curly fries despite Laura continuing to tell him that he _can’t eat on the clock, Stiles, you signed a memo_ , watches baseball on the television screen in the dining room, and then goes home.

Beacon Hills Golf Center isn’t the most glamorous job ever, but it pays above minimum wage, it’s pretty popular during the summer, and Stiles needs a way to pay off his student loans in between semesters somehow. He just skipped past the whole being a caddy phase and went straight to being covered in grease all day and slowly clogging his arteries. When he was hired Laura had asked him about the caddy position; Stiles said if he had to touch even one of Mr. Whittemore’s clubs it was going in the pond or directly up his ass. He got to work in the kitchen instead.

It isn’t a perfect job, but he has a routine, and he likes it. It’s good.

Up until the point that it isn’t.

“New guy in ice cream today,” Erica drawls casually, leaning over Stiles as he cleaned the grill and snagging a fry. Erica is the only girl that works on the cooks’ side, and she rules it with an iron fist.

“Guy?” Isaac asks. “Poor bastard.”

“C’mon, it’ll be cute,” Erica says. An order rings through for mozzarella sticks, and she glares at Isaac until he drops it in the fryer. “A change of pace. It gets boring, looking over at all those girls, all the same height, wearing the same thing.”

The kitchen and the ice cream area of the Beacon Hills Golf Center’s kitchen building are directly connected, one end housing the ice cream freezers and order windows and the other trying desperately to keep the air conditioning alive while the grills nearly burned everything down. The girls have to constantly pass by the kitchen corner to go through either doorway to the dining room or the walk-in freezer past the pizza station in the back room. Every employee has to wear khaki shorts and the same god awful bright orange shirt, _Beacon Hills Golf Center_ plastered on the front with _3 scoops of fun!_ on the back. Stiles has trouble telling the girls apart when they hand back dining trays, sometimes.

“Says you,” Isaac mutters. “I have a hell of a time.”

“Get your hetero ass out of the gutter and do your job, Lahey,” Erica jabs as the fryer’s timing system goes off. She shoves a basket with marinara sauce at him. He dumps the mozzarella sticks into it and grabs the receipt from her, walking to the dining window to ring the number through.

“Like you’re one to talk, Reyes,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to know what you and Boyd get up to in the supply basement.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erica replies innocently. Stiles knows Boyd heard him–he’s prepping pizzas in the other room–but the man doesn’t speak up. Stiles will just get a pointed look the next time he goes in there to get buns.

“I’ll admit it, I’m jealous,” Isaac says, walking back. “You get more head than I do, Erica.”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course she does,” Stiles says at the same time. “She’s a solid 10 and you write your number on to go boxes.”

“It is a solid technique and will work for me one day,” Isaac asserts, then turns his head toward the door. “Scott, help me, they’re being mean again.”

“What?” Stiles’ best friend Scott walks through the door into the kitchen, drenched in sweat, his hair slicked back in attempts to avoid the heat. Ah, summer in California. “Dude, you know I can’t beat forces of nature.”

Stiles and Erica high-five.

“Scott, my love, light of my world, what brings you here to our humid establishment?” Stiles asks, placing a half basket of fries further on the grill to heat them up. They’ll be soggy, but that’s what they get.

“Water,” Scott rasps. The sweat has begun to stain the front of his shirt, in between his pecs, and is that child vomit on his shorts? Gross.

“I got it!” A cheery voice calls. A short, smiley girl scoops up a bottle of water from the mini fridge under the counter and trots over to where they’re all standing. She stumbles and catches herself on the counter, nearly dropping the bottle, but rights herself and hands it to Scott. She blushes as he takes it and smiles at her.

“Oh man, thanks, Kira, you’re the best,” Scott says, promptly opening the bottle and chugging three-fourths of its contents. Kira beams and hops a little on her toes, her long dark hair bobbing in its ponytail. She has Chocolate Lover’s Delight smeared on her arm and cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice and Scott doesn’t seem to mind.

“You training the newbie, Yukimura?” Erica asks, smiling when Kira looks surprised. Stiles smirks, adjusting his Mets cap on his head. Erica has that effect.

“Oh, yeah!” Suddenly she’s all smiles again. Stiles side-eyes Scott’s enraptured look on his face. “I’m pretty excited, I love training people.”

“You stave off the hatred and resentment in employees by at least a month,” Stiles tells her, and she looks genuinely pleased.

“Why couldn’t they be hired outside?” Scott groans, like it’s all their fault.

“Hey, it’s not our fault they decided this place needed a _zip line_.”

“Plus, Jenn quit last week,” Kira adds. “After last year’s over-hiring disaster, I told Lydia that she should just hire fewer people that want to work more, and would be good at the job.”

“Went straight to Lydia, huh?” Scott asks. Lydia is all their age, still in college, but is much more impressive than the average fratboy, working in the complex’s arcade for only a year before being hired on as assistant manager of the entire center. She technically works under Finstock, the seasonal general manager, but only works when she’s home from MIT, and basically runs the place. Stiles is pretty sure Finstock just sits in his office and watches porn all day, only emerging to yell at teenagers and tell Stiles his future is meek and useless.

Kira blushes, running her hands through her ponytail nervously. “Well, you know. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I hear that,” Scott says, smiling at her.

After a beat Erica breaks the silence, moving toward the door. “I’m uncomfortable, I’m going to hang out with Boyd. Stilinski, don’t burn down the building.”

“Hey!”

Kira leaves to go run some ice cream orders, and after snagging a few fries Scott leaves to brave the elements outside, leaving just Isaac and Stiles running orders. It’s a Thursday, so it’s not like it’s busy; when they’re not working Isaac moves into the corner and plays Pokémon Go, trying to defend the center’s gym from intruding ten-year-olds.

The new guy comes in around 4 o’clock, which Stiles promptly cites as the moment his life ceases to exist and crawls into the vat of grill grease where it belongs.

He’s about six feet of pure _god_ and dark, grumpy eyebrows. He walks into the kitchen looking like it’s the last place he wants to be, and stops in front of Kira, who’s making a banana split. He moves to stuff his hands into his pockets and then seems to think better of it, leaving them hanging by his sides. Kira just stares at him.

“Kira?” the guy asks. Kira nods at him. Strawberry topping drips from the spoon she’s holding onto the counter. The guy sticks his hand out. “I’m Derek. You’re…training me?”

Kira nods again, looking from his outstretched hand to her occupied ones and back again.

“Let me just–” Kira pointedly jabs her head toward the sundae in her hand and runs to the order window, shouting out the order until whoever bought it takes it from her hands. Derek looks around the cramped building, taking in his surroundings. He turns to look at the hot fudge heater, giving Stiles a peak of a trimmed beard and bright green eyes. Isaac whistles under his breath.

Stiles pushes down on his grilled chicken a little too hard.

Kira trots back to where Derek is standing, dodging another girl that whizzes by, ice cream in hand. “Hi. Sorry. You took me off guard. Not because of anything you did, just like, you. You’re so…I’m Kira. I’ll be training you. Hi.”

Derek blinks at her. “Hi.”

“So!” She jumps a little bit, wiping whipped cream onto her shirt. “This is your first day! Super exciting. I’ll show you around what we’re in charge of here, and then we can come in here and run through all the things we make. It may seem complicated at first, but don’t worry, you’ll get it in no time.”

Derek looks less than thrilled. “Right.”

“Okay, I’ll take you to the dining room and outside first, and then we’ll go downstairs and to the attic!” Kira moves toward the doorway. Stiles tries to make it less obvious that he’s staring, trying to fight the blush that tries to make its way up his neck. “I’m so excited, we finally have a boy to clean the boy’s bathroom. You have no idea how awful it is when you knock and no one answers and there’s _still_ someone in there.”

“I’m sure,” Derek says, and catches Stiles’ eye for a split second as they approach the door. Stiles’ hand slides on his grill press, and he nearly faceplants into the grill.

Kira goes on about how the condiments must be filled at all times, and how they have to bring in the dining trays and wash them before giving them back to the kitchen. Isaac nudges Stiles with his elbow.

“You broken, Stilinski?”

“Fuh.”

Isaac stares at him with a smirk on his face, and at least as the decency to wait until Kira leads Derek outside to stroll into the back room, practically shouting “Stilinski has eye candy! Erica you’re on pizza shift forever, you’re not allowed into the front kitchen ever again.”

“Where is he?” Erica blasts into the kitchen, ignoring Isaac’s pained cry from the other room. She whips her head around, and then scampers to the dining room doorway, peering out past the windows and at Kira showing Derek how to properly replace the oversized trash bags. She whistles low, adjusting her cap on her head.

“Boyd, c’mere and look at this!” Erica calls, and Boyd trudges out of the pizza room to stand next to her. They both stare, like weirdoes.

After a moment, Boyd speaks. “That is an attractive man.”

Erica whoops. “Boyd said it, it is law!”

She turns to where Stiles has his head down, eyes purposely trained on the knife in his hand as he cuts grilled chicken for a salad. Erica smirks and slides closer to him, poking his cheek with a gloved hand.

“You’re gonna have to change that,” Stiles deadpans.

“What do you think, Stiles?” She taunts. “Has your heart stopped? Do we need to call Lydia for the first aid kit, get it started again?”

“We don’t even have an AED on site, we are out of code and you know it.”

“Oh c’mon, Stiles, he is so your type.”

“I don’t even have a type!” Stiles exclaims, picking the chicken up on his spatula and dumping it on top of the garden salad on the counter. “You’re just bullying me for my boner! He looks like he owns a leather jacket!”

“I dunno, that’s kinda hot.” Erica remarks. Boyd’s face remains impassive.

“Get out of my kitchen, Erica,” Stiles mumbles.

“Oh my, what a pleasant change,” Erica says, skipping toward the door. “I’m gonna go stick my face in front of the fan in the walk-in. Boyd, come help me.”

“ _Help_ you?” Isaac squeaks as the two walk by.

“Don’t question it,” Stiles says, leaning back against the counter. He checks the clock: _4:24_. Maybe in an hour he could go down to the back and get Allison to make him a drink. He could even bring Isaac, he was not-so-secretly crazy about the bartender. He was trying to keep his distance because Allison and Scott had dated up until the end of high school, but he was still super annoying about it, and–on second thought, he wouldn’t bring Isaac. He would just drink alone.

…Nah, he didn’t really want to be fired today.

Kira comes back in with Derek in tow about an hour later, and the poor guy looks exhausted. Stiles doesn’t blame him; the ice cream girls are responsible for a lot more than the cooks are, and while most of them ignore most of their duties in favor of hiding from the managers, Kira is _dedicated_.

“Okay! So now you know where everything is,” Kira is saying, ignoring the slightly constipated look on Derek’s face that is screaming _kill me now_. “so we can get to making the things! If you ever don’t know how to make a sundae, the steps are on the bulletin board right there. All the freezers have the name of the ice cream above where it is, so that’s pretty easy. Ummm, the soft serve is the hardest part, you need a steady hand and a flexible wrist, but you’ll get it eventually. Let’s start, let’s see…milkshakes! Stiles, do you want a milkshake?”

Stiles is shocked out of his stupor of staring at the powdered sugar topping on the shelf, flailing a bit as he turns to her. Kira giggles a bit, but Derek just stares at him. “Uh, wuh?”

Nice.

“You like milkshakes, do you want one?” Kira asks. “Derek will make it, he needs to practice.”

“Um, sure,” Stiles rubs the back of his neck, wincing when he realizes he still has a greasy glove on. “I don’t know if he can handle my regular, though. You’re the only one that does it justice.”

“He can do it,” Kira smiles.

“What’s your regular?” Derek asks, and Stiles wants to swallow himself whole.

“Bonfire S’mores with peanut butter cups and marshmallow topping,” Stiles rattles off immediately, something twitching in his gut as Derek frowns. “I call it the S’moresgasm.”

“Sure.” Derek’s voice is full of sarcasm and disdain as he turns around and stalks toward the milkshake machine, ignoring Kira as she runs after him, saying she hasn’t even told him how to make it yet. Stiles wants to say something, but an order rings through for cheese fries, so he swallows whatever was building in his throat.

Isaac comes out of the back room just in time for Derek to stomp back to the kitchen station, milkshake in hand. He thrusts it toward Stiles, sans top, because he’s apparently an asshole. Stiles raises an eyebrow and takes it gently, accepting a straw from Kira as she runs up and hands it to him.

“Sorry, Stiles, there’s not as much marshmallow as there usually is.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Stiles murmurs, and apparently Derek decides he’s done, because he turns around and walks toward the registers. Stiles takes a sip of the milkshake; it’s really good, as it always is. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Kira sighs, looking back toward Derek. “This one is such a handful. I might tell Lydia to transfer him over to Go Karts.”

“That guy doesn’t seem like he’d like kids at all,” Isaac remarks. “But he’d be a good sight for cougar moms.”

“I guess,” Kira picks up a rag and starts wiping at a hot fudge spill. “Hopefully his attitude will get better. I already have to deal with you guys.”

“Was that a jab, Yukimura?” Stiles taunts teasingly. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know about me,” Kira teases back, winking at him as she walks back toward the registers, steering Derek toward the soft serve machine.

“I’ve never seen the great Stiles Stilinski so speechless,” Isaac says, tossing a pair of gloves into the trash. “Dick got your tongue?”

“Shut up, asshole,” Stiles punches at him, making no move to follow when Isaac dodges away. “He’s not very nice.”

“You’re not very nice,” Isaac replies. “Match made in heaven.”

“You wish, I’m an angel.”

 “Yeah, whatever, keep telling yourself that. You’re just a slave to this place, your soul has already withered away.”

“Excuse you, I’ll let you know I am the assistant supervisor of kitchen services,” Stiles exclaims.

“Is that what you call your forty cent pity raise?” Isaac jeers.

“You’re an ass.”

“Who’s an ass?” Laura walks into the front kitchen, crossing her arms. “Stiles, no swearing at work.”  
“You literally just said the word ass,” Stiles points out, dumping cheese all over a basket of fries and shoving it into Isaac’s hands. “No swearing at work, Laura.”

“I’m the supervisor, I can swear.”

“I don’t feel like that’s really fair.”

“I’ll take your complaints in writing,” Laura says, smirking and leaning up against the counter.

“Oh, I have plenty.” Stiles grabs the notepad off the shelf and starts scribbling. “Starting with the color of these shirts. There’s a reason I wear the white chef’s overshirt, Laura, and that reason is fashion. Secondly, you made me buy shoes for this job. The point of a job is to make money!”

“Let me see those complaints, I’ll review them later.” Laura takes the piece of paper Stiles rips out of the notepad, tears it in two, and drops it in the trash. “You’re lucky I let you eat on the clock.”

“Only when you feel like it,” Isaac mumbles.

“Watch it, Lahey, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t even have a cell phone anymore.”

“Touché.”

“Aw, Der-Bear!” Laura exclaims, and walks toward the ice cream end of the room. Stiles and Isaac both raise an eyebrow.

“Der-Bear?” Isaac asks, under his breath.

Derek turns around from the soft serve machine, limp and floppy cone of vanilla in his hand. “Laura.”

“I see you’re doing well on your first day,” Laura says, overly sardonic.

Derek stares at the falling ice cream cone in his hand like he’d rather kill its whole family than take a single lick. “Can you leave now.”

“Aw, little brother, no I can’t!” Laura tries to side-hug Derek, but he just stays where he is. A steady stream of melted vanilla makes its way down his wrist. “I’m supervisor for this building until close tonight.”

“Wonderful.”

“Laura has a brother?” Erica asks, appearing out of nowhere in the doorway. Stiles flails and jars his elbow on a fryer handle.

“Apparently,” Isaac replies. “And she saddled him in ice cream.”

“That smells like revenge to me,” Erica nods. “I approve.”

“I didn’t even want this job, Laura,” Derek is saying, seemingly trying to hide his muscular body into the corner. Stiles does his best to make it not seem like he’s eavesdropping like a complete asshole, while that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“You know what mom said,” Laura replies, smoothing back her hair exasperatedly. “and this job gives you tips. More money than the other positions. I can see about putting you out back, but they don’t really need more help back there, so this will have to do for now. It’s the best you’re going to get.”

Derek looks at the floor, eyebrows furrowing, and then looks up, eyeing the cooks. Stiles looks at the grill, hoping Derek hadn’t noticed him staring. Derek huffs. “Fine.”

“Oh man,” Erica sneers. “This is going to be _great_.”

.

Derek gets better after the first day; the attitude drops a bit, while the grumpy eyebrows stay. Stiles is pretty sure they’re just stuck like that. He’s more polite, he gets better at making the ice creams, he reaches all the top shelves for the girls, it’s great.

Except for the fact that he seems to hate Stiles, and Stiles just can’t figure it out.

He gets along with the rest of the cooks fine; Erica and him launch sarcasm at each other in a way that would seem flirtatious if Erica didn’t act like that with everyone _except_ for Boyd; Isaac and Derek share small talk like they’ve been casual friends forever, and Stiles had seen Derek fold towels next to Boyd in the pizza room as he chopped romaine for salads. Derek even talked amiably with the other, more part-time cooks, like Danny, the twins, and Mason.

And he didn’t talk to Stiles.

“Does Derek hate me?” he asks Boyd, leaning against the pizza machine. He watches as Derek brings back an armful of washed trays, scooting past Isaac and heaving them up onto the shelf, smirking as Isaac says something and ducking his head as he walks back to the other side. “I think he hates me.”

“If that’s what you think,” Boyd says, sprinkling olives on a Greek salad. Stiles wrinkles his nose. Gross.

“You know, you are maybe the most unhelpful person I’ve ever met in my life.”

Boyd shrugs.

The thing is, Stiles can’t think of anything he did to offend the man as much as he has seemed to. He knows he’s an asshole, but he can’t be that bad. He’s tried everything; he holds out his hands when Derek walks the trays back, but either Derek either straight up doesn’t make eye contact as he transfers them over, or just dumps them on the counter and turns around, Stiles’ hand still outstretched. Stiles thought maybe he looked like a jackass with his Mets Cap always tucked forward on his head, so one day he tried it backwards, his hair spiking out a bit where the hole at the back of the hat is. Derek made even _less_ eye contact with him, opting to stare at the floor or into the freezers at the ice cream, the only word he speaks to him being a muffled “sorry” as they nearly collided respectively entering and exiting the walk-in. Stiles even tries smiling at Derek when their eyes do meet, the corners of his lips barely pulling into a smirk, but Derek just flushes and grabs a rag to clean, or vacates the building entirely.

“It’s like I have a _disease_ ,” Stiles whines, banging his palm lightly on the machine behind him. It gives him an offended beep in response.

“I thought you did,” Isaac says, coming in to grab a gluten free bun from the kitchen. “Did the doctor clear you of crabs?”

“Oh, Isaac, hey, you left your phone in the break room; your dermatologist called, something about your anti fungal ointment being shipped in bulk?”

Isaac flips him off on the way back to the front, cameras be damned.

“If you think he hates you,” Boyd says. “why don’t you ask him?”

Stiles sighs. “Nah, I think I’ll just wallow in my misery and keep offering kind gestures from afar.”

Boyd shrugs again. “Whatever.”

“I’m going to go take out all the ice cream girls’ trash bags for them again.”

“ _Whipped_!” Erica shouts from the front room. There’s a crash from the ice cream side, and a deep sigh. When Stiles reaches the first trash can, giving Erica a glare as he goes, Derek, Kira, and another girl named Violet are on the floor, cleaning up the container of maraschino cherries that evidently spilled.

“Oh, damn,” Stiles exclaims. “Let me get the mop.”

He runs around the corner to grab the mop, filling it partway with water and wheeling it around to ice cream in record time. Kira gives him a strained smile and runs back to the register to help customers. Violet picks up the mass amounts of paper towels she’d piled onto the spill to throw them in the trash, while Derek takes the mop from Stiles’ hands.

“Thanks,” he murmurs gruffly, straining the mop and wiping at the liquid.

“No problem.” Violet picks up the soiled cherries with her hands, tossing them into the trash a few feet away. Stiles laughs, easy and mood-lightening. “Three points!”

Violet rolls her eyes at him, and Stiles picks up the trash bag to change it out. “I’ll grab these for you guys,” he says. “Looks like you got enough on your hands.”

Violet chuckles but Derek remains silent, his grip on the mop becoming tighter as Stiles grabs the other trash bag and makes his way out to the dumpster. When he gets back everything’s clean again, Kira and Derek smiling at customers and Violet making a large soft serve dish. Stiles frowns and walks to the back room to wash his hands.

The rest of the night is surprisingly busy, Boyd continuously pumping out pizzas while they switch Stiles onto grill, because he’s the best at it. Erica controls baskets because she likes shouting out the orders and telling the boys to go faster. It’s nine-thirty before they know it, and they’re cleaning up to go home, Isaac already having left at eight. At ten they get the A-OK from Laura to go home, and they wave goodnight to the ice cream side, which is always there later than every other section because of how much they have to do to close. Erica races to the station first to clock out, and then they all make their way to the parking lot together.

“Freedom!” Erica calls to the sky.

“You say that after every shift,” Stiles says. Boyd hums.

“Yeah, well I mean it every shift,” Erica sticks her tongue out at him, running around to Boyd’s passenger side. Stiles scoots by her to jump into his Jeep, turning the key and rolling down the window.

“I have to tell Scott about the spill Kira made today,” he muses. “He thinks it’s endearing that she’s so clumsy.”

“Kira?” Erica asks, buckling her seatbelt. Boyd’s engine whirs to life. “Oh, honey, that wasn’t Kira. That was Derek.”

“Derek?” Stiles echoes incredulously. “But, what–”

“Goodnight, Stilinski!” Erica says, Boyd’s car pulling into reverse and then speeding out of the parking lot, Erica whooping in delight.

Stiles blinks, looking at his dashboard. He shakes his head and rips his Mets cap off his head, dumping it into the passenger seat before driving home.

.

“My life is a catastrophe,” Stiles groans, flopping his entire upper torso unto the bar. The patron a couple seats away from him gives him a dirty look.

“You say that every time you come here to drink,” Allison says, wiping up a spill to Stiles’ right. He’s parked himself at the end of the bar, near the window overlooking the go karts and mini golf, just like always. Stiles drags himself back up into a sitting position and grasps at the beer Allison has put down in front of his face. She slides a lime onto the top of it and Stiles gives her a thumbs up.

“Put it on my tab,” Stiles mumbles, and begins breathing beer.

“If I put it on your tab at the first instead of the third drink, you’d be broke,” Allison reminds him, but writes something down on the notepad she keeps in her apron anyway. She tucks a strand of hair, lightly curled today, behind her ear. Stiles imagines the girls up front probably envy how the bar girls can let their hair down during work. From how he’s seen Erica and Kira wear their how outside of work, he thinks they probably hate having it up all the time.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite,” Stiles winks at her.

“Where’s Scott?” Allison asks, leaning against the counter toward him. There’s two other people tending the bar, and it’s not very busy yet, so she can afford to talk to him. Stiles prefers to come before the band arrives, because drunk him hates large amounts of people and loud noises. In fact, regular him does too. “Usually he comes along with you for your pity parties.”

“Hey, my parties are usually pity free.” Allison raises her eyebrows at him. “Usually. Scott’s out with Kira tonight, I think, all three of us have the night off but I didn’t want to third-wheel or anything.”

Allison smiles softly, nodding. Stiles pulls another sip of his beer. Allison got past being uncomfortable around Scott ages ago, and Stiles is so happy they’re friends again, because now he nearly always has someone to take him home when he’s drunk.

Speaking of, Allison narrows her eyes. “Who’s taking you home?”

“Me,” Stiles says, and cuts Allison off before she can start. “I’m not driving, don’t worry. You know I only live like four minutes away from this place, I’m gonna walk. Worse comes to worst I can call Scott, or god forbid my dad.”

“How are things at home?”

“Good. I practically live here, but my dad practically lives at the station, so it’s fair. Our fridge only has spinach and beets in it right now. I have mac and cheese boxes hidden in the medicine cabinet, it’s the last place my dad will look.”

“He’ll get it eventually.” Allison takes the glasses of a couple that has left to find seats in the pavilion and dumps them in a tray underneath the bar.

“You’re right.” Stiles shakes his head. “He found the pizza rolls I had hidden in the garage in two weeks. The man is committed.”

“And Melissa?”

“Comes over twice a week for family dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, whatever Scott and I can both make. It’s nice.” Stiles stops abruptly. “You’re distracting me from my misery, you witch!”

“And here I was thinking that made me a good friend,” Allison stops cleaning a glass with a rag and gets him another beer, replacing his empty one. “Alright, tell me about your woes.”

“I have so many woes!” Stiles exclaims, flailing his hands. “I used to _rule_ the kitchen. Okay, Erica rules the kitchen, I used to at least be somewhat in charge and confident of myself, and then Derek Hale has to come along and be all attractive and _hate me_ and make everything hard. I just want to be an attractive, likeable, all around perfect person, Allison. Why can’t that be easy?”

“Derek Hale?” Allison asks, completely choosing to ignore the rest of what he said. “Laura and Cora Hale’s brother?”

“There’s a third one?” Stiles’ voice is exasperated. “Is she intimidating and unfairly attractive too? Do puppies follow her around and shit rainbows?”

“Yes, yes, and no,” Allison rolls her eyes. “She works in the arcade.”

“The place to which I will never venture,” Stiles says. “But yes. That one. Tall, attractive, dark hair, intense eyebrows, Harry Potter eyes?”

Allison shrugs. “I’ve never met him. Heard some things, though. Isaac says he’s the first boy in ice cream in like three years.”

“God, and he’s good at it, too,” Stiles moans. “He’s good at everything, and I’m fryer grease.”

“Just because you smell like it sometimes, doesn’t mean that’s what you are. Is Scott metal and vomit?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not fryer grease.”

“I understand your logic, Allison, but Scott is a literal ray of sunshine and happiness, so an accurate comparison between him and me, the personification of fryer grease and insomnia, cannot be made.”

Allison sighs. “So why does Derek hate you?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles cradles his forehead in one hand. “I smile at him, I take the dining trays back, I opened the cans of hot fudge while he had to fulfil an order so he wouldn’t have to use the shitty can opener, I am so nice! I am so nice to Derek Hale!”

“Maybe he likes bad boys,” Allison muses. “Have you tried demeaning him fundamentally?”

“God, he probably doesn’t even like boys,” Stiles realizes in horror. “He’s so straight. He’s the straightest boy in the history of straight boys. Jesus, what if he’s deep subreddit levels of homophobic? What if he has a 4Chan?”

“If he gets along with Ethan, Danny, and Mason, he’s probably not homophobic.”

“But what if he’s straight?”

“Then he’s straight,” Allison says. “Caitlyn tells me all the time about trying to pick up girls who give the right signals but then turn out to be straight. Some things just don’t work out.”

“Okay, but I’m like, sixty percent sure he’s not straight,” Stiles reasserts. “He probably just hates me. He probably just hates my hat. What if he hates the Mets? I don’t think I could love another team for a guy.”

“Stiles, that’s not how dating works.” Allison sighs. “Has he even given any signs that he dislikes you? He hasn’t said anything mean, has he?”

“He doesn’t say anything at all,” Stiles mumbles. “He just stands there, working, looking amazing, even in that dumb orange shirt.”

“I’m so happy we wear black back here,” Allison muses. Stiles furrows his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and you all look _fantastic_ , it’s not fair.”

“Gets the tips.”

“Hey, Stiles, can I get you another beer?” another bartender, Theo, asks.

“Eat a dick, Raeken.”

“We might have to cut you off soon,” Allison laughs. “You’re gonna end up giving all of your hard-earned money back to this place.”

“I’ve had three drinks. Give me whiskey.”

“Yes, sir.” Allison moves to grab a bottle. “Clean?”

“Nah, on the rocks.”

Allison leaves for a few minutes to help other customers, as more people are beginning to trickle in. Stiles thinks it’ll probably start to get pretty busy, being a Saturday night. He’s happy he’s not working; weekend nights are insanity up at the kitchen, with all the late food orders, not to mention the amount of drunk people who want ice cream after the shows. One time some guy ordered his ice cream, waited for it, and then promptly threw his soft serve right at the upper windows above the order window. Everyone tells the story like it was some outrageous thing, but if he’s being honest with himself, drunk Stiles thinks that could be something he would do, if motivated correctly.

He finishes his drink and Allison comes over to replace it. “Another whiskey?”

“You know what,” Stiles says, looking at the grand selection of booze on the wall behind the counter. “No, I want something fruity. Fruity and fancy. I want to feel like a princess.”

“You always switch after four drinks,” Allison smirks, getting out the Malibu and fruit juices. “The sad part is that I know you’re not drunk until at least six.”

“You make this remark every time, you’d think we’d all expect it by now.” Stiles makes grabby hands as Allison tops it off with a paper umbrella stabbing a strawberry. He pries off the strawberry gently with his teeth and then leans forward to stick the umbrella behind Allison’s ear without gouging her eye out. Allison giggles and models the look for him with her hand.

“Twelve out of ten,” Stiles remarks, leaning back in his chair. “Never let me go, Ally.”

“I’ve been trying, you just have a real strong grip,” Allison teases, and then looks beyond him toward the pavilion. “Hmm. There’s Derek.”

“What?” Stiles nearly chokes on an ice cube, whipping around in his seat. Super sly.

Stiles watches in horror as Derek emerges from the walk-in trailer freezer behind the pavilion, carrying ice cream replacements. He wants to hide behind the bar, and nearly makes the move to launch himself over the divider, stopped only by Allison’s steady grip on his arm. Derek navigates through the growing crowd of people in the pavilion courtyard, focusing on not hitting anyone on his way through.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Stiles groans. “He’s gonna see me drinking fruity drinks, dear god, Allison, hide me.”

“I thought you were a princess.”

“This is not the time to call me out.”

Stiles begins to think he might be in the clear when Derek glances over at the bar as he steps onto the path between the bar building and the mini golf course. Derek pauses slightly as he walks by, two big gallons of ice cream wrapped in his arms and steadily dampening his shirt with the melting ice on the outside of the containers. He meets Stiles’ eye fleetingly, and Stiles feels his face flush red as Derek looks away and continues walking up to the kitchen building, head ducked down. Allison exhales sharply through her nose in a scoff and smiles.

“I think he likes you,” Allison teases. Stiles folds his arms on the bar and buries his head in them, moaning in despair. Allison at least as the decency to rub his head a little. She’s a good friend.

.

Stiles doesn’t see Derek for another few shifts, which gives him a bit of time to get over his humiliation and casual existential despair. He goes into work to open on Wednesday morning, intent on enjoying his couple hours of peace before Derek comes in to help Tracy at eleven. It’s not like he stalked the schedule or anything. He just likes to know who he’s working with. Honest.

“Hey, Stiles,” Mason says as he walks through the door, the bell ringing. Stiles nods his greeting, continuing to prep grilled cheese sandwiches and secure them in saran wrap.

“What’s up, Mason?” Stiles tosses. “How long you here for?”

“Only until four,” the younger man says, clocking in and slipping on a pair of gloves. “You?”

“Opened,” Stiles tells him, gesturing to the clean kitchen around them. “So my prison sentence ends at three.”

Mason smiles at him, looking around. “Got anything for me to do?”

“Sure,” Stiles turns around and grabs a head of lettuce out of the fridge. “Chop this into tiny pieces, keep me company.”

Mason seems more than happy to stand next to Stiles and chop lettuce on the cutting board; Stiles never took the kid as someone with repressed anger, but he cuts the lettuce with fervor and accuracy and smiles at Stiles when he’s done.

“Anything else?” he asks, and Stiles shrugs.

“You can check to see if all the toppings and sauces up front are stocked,” Stiles says. “then check the fryer fridges, restock there. I brought up a bunch of boxes this morning from the back, so the walk-in is all stocked.”

“Sure thing!” Mason chirps. They both go to the front kitchen to check the stock. Stiles sees Derek there across the room, wiping down the milkshake machine. He smiles in his direction, but Derek seems to be deliberately not looking at him. Stiles tries to stamp down the disappointment that rises in his chest every time this happens, and checks the frozen steaks and fried dough selection in the second fryer fridge.

“So who else is coming in?” Mason asks, maneuvering the plastic bin in the topping slide to get the pickle container out.

“Erica and Aiden at twelve,” Stiles replies, rising out of his kneeling position to check how the cheese and chili supplies are heating. “It’s always weird for me when Aiden and Ethan don’t work at the same time.”

“It’s weird when they do work together,” Mason jokes. “They don’t even need to talk, they just read each other’s minds.”

“Telepathic twins, just what we need,” Stiles murmurs. “We need more chicken tenders and buns. I’ll grab the buns?”

“You just don’t want to lift anything,” Mason teases lightly. Stiles shrugs his confession and they both walk back into the pizza station, finding their respective food goods. “Hey, do you watch Supernatural?”

Stiles walks back into the front kitchen, buns in hand. “I’m always a slut for bad ghosts and male eye candy.”

Mason blushes, rubbing the back of his neck as he smiles. “Have you been watching this season?”

“No! I’m a terrible and irresponsible person and only binge watch when I’m drunk or lonely, no spoilers!”

Mason laughs, tossing the chicken tenders into the fridge. He follows Stiles as he goes back to grab the pickle bucket. “Well, I won’t ruin anything for you. What’s your favorite season?”

“Five.” Stiles heaves up the pickle bucket, which isn’t actually all that heavy, but Mason reaches to help him with it anyway. “Undoubtedly. Lots of man pain and biblical references. The finale made me cry.”

“Me too,” Mason admits, and Stiles laughs out loud.

They start getting orders soon after they refill the pickle container and naturally split roles, Stiles manning the grill and Mason taking control of baskets and fryer. They chat amiably about Supernatural and then Star Wars. Stiles complains loudly that Scott _still_ hasn’t seen it, and Mason empathizes; his best friend Liam, who works as a caddy and on the mini golf course, hasn’t seen it either. Stiles asserts that there’s something in Beacon Hills High School’s water, and Mason laughs and agrees. When Aiden and Erica come in, Stiles redirects Aiden to prep pizzas while he dazzles Erica and Mason with his spatula skills, spinning it about and flipping burgers behind his back. He drops one spatula on the floor, but they have four others hanging on the wall, so it’s fine. Stiles sends Mason laughing into a fit as he does a spin move to flip a grilled chicken and nearly sends it launching into the buffalo dip.

“Woo, that was close,” Stiles smiles, grabbing the Cajun spice off of the shelf. “Time to ruin this piece of bird forever.”

“It’s not that bad,” Mason says.

“Isn’t that bad?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Every time I poof this onto anything I sneeze at least four times. You asked for it, my sneezes are disgusting.”

“I doubt it,” Mason mumbles fondly.

“Hmm.” Erica leans back against the wall, just short enough so that the spoons hanging over her don’t touch her head. Her voice has a musical tinge. “Someone’s staring.”

Stiles glances over at the ice cream side and catches Derek’s eye for a split second. A flush appears Derek’s face and he scowls, turning away and grabbing the sanitary wipes. He walks straight to the door on the other side and out toward the bathrooms.

“Awkward,” Stiles murmurs under his breath.

Erica sighs. “ _Boys_ ,” she sighs, and rests her head on the wall, closing her eyes. Mason looks generally uncomfortable. Of course, Stiles’ body waits until Derek is back in the building to sneeze a record six times in a row, making Erica snort and Mason smile. Stiles chooses not to look for Derek’s reaction.

“You’d think you two could think with your brains and not your penises for like a single second,” Erica murmurs, putting pickles into baskets.

Stiles balks. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Derek,” Erica gestures vaguely. “Just make out in the freezer already and be done with it.”

“I’m gonna–” Mason stares at the floor, red creeping up the back of his neck– “I’m gonna go look for more honey mustard.”

Erica stares after Mason as he quickly retreats, lips pulled to one side. “Shit, I forgot. I fucked up.”

“What the fuck, Reyes?” Stiles gapes at her. “What is with you?”

“Look,” Erica rolls her eyes, pulling toasted buns off the grill to prep. “Just because we all pretend you’re not hot shit doesn’t mean it’s actually true. Get your head out of your ass and get laid.”

“Wha–” Stiles blinks. “What if I don’t want to?”

Erica raises her eyebrow.

“I can’t just, I can’t, it doesn’t work that way!” Stiles skittishly looks over toward ice cream, but Derek is preoccupied at the register.

“You’ll figure it out,” Erica shrugs. “And if not, Hewitt’s totally into you.”

“What.” Stiles rubs his head with his forearm. “He’s like twelve.”

“He’s eighteen, and has a crush,” Erica smirks. “You should be able to relate.”

“What happened in high school is behind us,” Stiles says forcefully. “We can forget.”

“Lydia hasn’t forgotten,” Erica teases. “You’re just happy she knows your name now.”

“I have no chance with Lydia.” Stiles carries the burgers on his spatula to the awaiting baskets.

“But you _do_ have a chance with Derek,” Erica sing-songs.

“In what world?” Stiles scoffs. “He barely _looks_ at me.”

“He looks more than you think,” Erica says. “Just gotta get his attention.”

“We’re not all beautiful and intimidating, Erica.”

“I have a feeling he’s not into beautiful and intimidating, sad as that may be. I bet he’s more into the cute, nerdy type.” When Stiles scoffs and moves to ring up the order, Erica sighs. “Look in a mirror for once, Batman.”

“Can’t.” Stiles walks right past her and into the back room. “Don’t want my beautiful pale skin to catch on fire. Then I wouldn’t get laid at all.”

“Obviously you haven’t watched Buffy.”

Stiles snorts. They watched all of that show together and Erica knows it.

He doesn’t think any more about what Erica said until he gets home at three-thirty, nuking the burger he made himself and pouring himself a glass of chocolate milk. He decides avoiding his problems is much better than actually dealing with them, grabs a bag of Funyuns, puts on an old season of Survivor and looses himself to the void. He’s only brought out of his stupor when his phone vibrates about three episodes in.

 **Scotto:** **shit hit the fan when u left**

Stiles scrunches his face and fills his mouth with Funyuns, typing out a reply.

**Me: what happened**

**Scotto: violet made kira cry at work, kira’s been having trouble at home and it wasn’t a good day**

**Me: bitch. do i need to kick her ass? talk to Laura or Lydia?**

**Scotto: laura already knows but do u wanna come play video games tonight? i think it would cheer her up**

**Me: sure thing be over @9?**

**Scotto: *thumbs up emoji***

**Scotto: don’t make a big deal about it, derek already yelled at violet and she apologized**

Stiles stares at his phone, Funyun in hand. He squints his eyes and wills himself to stop, but can’t help the fond feeling that creeps into his chest at the thought of Derek defending his friends.

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, and flops over into his pillow. He’s so screwed.

.

It’s just one of those days. He went over to Scott’s house and played video games with him and Kira, had a wonderful time, even got Kira to giggle. He had the next day off, so he went into town with Scott and Allison for lunch and met his dad at the station for dinner. It was nice; despite all of this, he wakes up this morning with a bitter taste in the back of his throat and every cell in his body screaming _no grease, noooo!_

He forces himself up and out the door for his twelve to eight shift, fuck him. He drives to work even though he had been planning on walking in some deluded attempt to exercise and sits in the parking lot for five minutes, just staring at his dashboard.

It’s just one of those days.

“Hey, man,” Scott calls to him from where he’s refilling the mini golf balls. Stiles throws him a salute and grabs the handle to the kitchen door.

“See you when I’m dead,” Stiles groans. Scott laughs, but there’s an emptiness to it. They’re both there forever.

He walks straight to the clock to punch in, noticing that there’s no one in the back room. He looks around, but he doesn’t really hear anything from the front kitchen, either. Stiles moves to walk up to the front when Mason comes through the doorway. He looks shocked when he sees Stiles; he flushes and moves past him into the walk-in without a word. Stiles closes his open mouth.

Erica is leaning against the counter in the front kitchen, hat tucked down as if she’s trying to take a nap. Stiles casts a look over to the ice cream side; a girl he knows from school but can’t remember the name of is at the register, casting a thousand yard stare out at the empty queue. Derek is forcefully rinsing dishes and trays and putting them into the washer, and makes no move to look at him or say hi. Figures.

Erica tilts her head up to look at him. “You’re a troublemaker, Stilinski,” she snides quietly.

“What?” Stiles crinkles his forehead. He doesn’t have the patience for riddles today. “What’s wrong with Mason?”

Erica shrugs. “Hewitt’s been in a funk since yesterday. I think something happened, but we’re not actually friends. I’d bet good money it has something to do with dark and broody’s massive boner for you, though.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Stiles bends down to check the bacon stock, and Erica huffs.

“Better keep that ass out of view, Batman. You’ll start a war.”

“Seriously, Erica, what the hell?” Stiles says, maybe a little too loudly. Kira comes through the kitchen door, holding two ice cream gallons, and sends him a strained smile. Stiles thinks it may be because her feelings are still a little shaky, but it turns out that Laura is right behind her.

“No swearing at work, Stiles,” Laura says, but she sounds tired.

Stiles concedes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Laura rests her palm on her forehead. “Okay guys, it’s not going to be busy today for awhile. First half of the shift is going to be dead, because it’s shit outside, but it’s going to get nicer, and we have the adult league volleyball game happening here tonight at 5, so they’re going to want food. Just be prepared.”

“Gotcha, boss.” Stiles says, and Erica nods. “We’ll pass it along.”

“Cool. Danny’s coming in later, and so is Isaac, so it shouldn’t suck too much.” Laura pauses, and then moves in closer, her voice going low. “Hey, guys…how’s Derek doing?”

“He doesn’t talk to you?” Erica asks. “What a sibling bond.”

Laura gives her a pained look, and Stiles whacks her arm. “Sorry,” she says. “Only child syndrome.”

“He really didn’t want to work here,” Laura sighs. “and he’s ridiculously overqualified, education wise, but he didn’t get this job in Sacramento he really wanted, and our mom thinks that he needs to have a real job. He’s bitter about the whole thing.”

Stiles nods. He understands; he’s been turned down for three separate internships, but he didn’t really take it too hard, because he’s still got time before he graduates. If he were to guess, Derek’s probably already graduated. Stiles doesn’t want to work at the BHGC after he graduates; it’s respectable work, but college students are pressured to get “real people jobs” right off the bat. It’d probably feel like a kick in the balls, like he never left high school.

Stiles is starting to feel bad.

“I just don’t want him to hate me,” Laura says. “I have to be his manager here, not his sister.”

“You’re not the one he hates,” Stiles promises.

“Jesus, Stilinski, get your head out of the goddamn fryer,” Erica spits, exasperated. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Stiles pulls his lips to one side fleetingly, disbelieving. “Eh.”

“He doesn’t hate anyone, really,” Laura assures. “He’s just bad at making friends.”

“That seems like an issue for kindergarten, not work.” Stiles can’t help it if it comes out a little harsh.

Laura stares at the counter. “Yeah.”

Erica scoffs. “Haven’t you ever heard of pulling pigtails, Stiles?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles says.

Erica makes an exasperated noise, moving toward the back in a huff. “Dumbass.”

“Erica…” Laura warns, but her voice is distracted, eyes on Derek as he kneels down to clean the outside of the soft serve machine. Her lips curl into a soft smile.

“You women are all insane,” Stiles exclaims, walking over to the soft drink machine to get himself some orange soda. “Absolutely insane.”

“Make me a grilled chicken sandwich,” Laura says in response, and then walks into the back room. Probably to scheme with Erica. Stiles murmurs under his breath as he moves back into the alcove and obediently drops a chicken breast on the grill.

He doesn’t even need Erica or Mason there, and they don’t really help him; he only gets six orders by three o’clock, a remarkably slow day, and Erica spends the entire time restocking the back freezers. At least that’s helpful–Stiles doesn’t see Mason for nearly the kid’s entire shift. He gets an order for a cheese slice and calls out to Erica for it, but she doesn’t answer. He assumes she went to the bar freezer and walks back himself. He stops when he hears Mason and Liam’s voices near the walk-in.

“It’s not fair,” Mason is saying, his voice catching. “I just…he’s an asshole for scaring me, even if he didn’t mean to, you know?”

“Drama queen,” Liam agrees, voice angry. Stiles makes to take a step forward, but stops himself. Liam has some anger issues, but he doesn’t usually overreact with Mason.

“It’s not a crime to have a crush on someone!” Mason claims, voice hurt. “It’s not cool for him to yell at me, I can’t, I don’t, I don’t want to be here. I can’t work with him here.”

Stiles makes an executive decision, moving into the room. “Hey guys, what’s wrong?”

Both Mason and Liam whip their heads toward him, Mason looking shocked and on guard, Liam protective. Stiles is utterly confused. He tries to make his voice soft. “What happened?”

“I don’t…I don’t wanna start anything–”

“The incredible Hulk in there needs to calm his ass in there,” Liam asserts.

“Who?”

“Derek,” Mason whispers, head tilted toward the ground.

“Oh.” Stiles tries to wrap his head around that one. Sure, Derek obviously works out, like, it _shows_ , but if there’s anyone he would name after Bruce Banner, it would be Liam himself. Derek is more of a Captain America, or Superman sort. Maybe Thor, that was a more neutral party. _God_ , Stiles thinks, _brain_ , _shut up_! “What’d he do?”

Mason clears his throat. “I, uh, well, yesterday I was here with Danny and Boyd, and Danny and I were talking, because I have this, I have this…crush on someone that works here, and then Derek, I guess he was having a bad day or something, but he just snapped at me about it, said it was inappropriate or something, I don’t know. He scared the shit out of me, it was…he can turn it on, man. He’s terrifying.”

Sudden distaste boils through Stiles’ blood, the fondness for Derek sitting in Stiles’ chest shriveling up at the sight of Mason so upset. Two days before he told Violet off for yelling at Kira, the next day he’s the one yelling at Mason? What a hypocrite. Mason was still a kid, Derek was several years older, he should know not to be such an asshole. _Kindergarten,_ Stiles thinks. He blinks the rage away.

“He’s just jealous,” Liam mutters angrily. “I’ll teach him.”

“Slow down, professor,” Stiles says pointedly. “That won’t fix anything. I’ll tell Laura, okay? And she’ll tell Lydia, and they’ll do something about it. Until then, Mason, you can stick back here, cool? You can be my pizza guy today. That sound okay?”

“Yeah,” Mason manages a small smile. Stiles returns it, and clasps his hand briefly on his shoulder.

“Awesome,” Stiles nods. “Now, I need a cheese slice.”

Mason laughs and moves to fulfill the task, saying goodbye to Liam as he tells his friend he’s okay to go back and do his actual job.

Stiles has to work to keep his facial expression neutral while we walks into the front kitchen. He’s missed two tickets, but they’re both fries, so he puts them out before Erica even comes back from the bar freezer, spare BHGC sweatshirt hanging loosely on her figure. She takes one look at Stiles staring pointedly at the wall beyond the grill and moves to prepare more baskets without a word. If there’s one thing Stiles likes about Erica when he’s upset, it’s that she’s intuitive.

Danny comes in at three and immediately adapts to the feeling in the building, only speaking to announce that he’ll take fryer and to greet Kira as she walks by to restock ketchup. He resets the pilot when the fryer craps out, like it has to at least five times a shift, and frowns when he stands back up.

“Just remembered,” he says to Stiles and Erica. “Boyd told me yesterday that we have to replace the hood grease trap today.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’ll do it.”

“You sure?” Danny asks.

“Totally, gotta do something today.”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, mom.”

“If you’re not doing anything, Danny, will you help me downstairs?” Tracy, who obviously overheard their conversation, asks. “We have to replace the CO2 tank for the soda, and it’s so heavy.”

“Definitely,” Danny agrees, and follows her downstairs. Stiles goes to the closet and takes out the stepstool, casting a fleeting smile to Mason as he does. The younger man gives him a nod.

“Well, I guess I’m on grill, then!” Erica announces, exasperated.

“Thanks, Catwoman,” Stiles smirks at her, stepping up onto the stool. “If Laura needs someone to scrape gum off the sidewalk, she’ll know who to call.”

“Fuck that, I’ll make Hewitt do it.”

Stiles reaches up and hooks his hand around the metal hood above the grill, feeling around gently for the metal grease trap. He flexes his arm muscles, making sure to be careful to not touch the hot metal of the hood.

“You want an oven mitt?” Erica asks.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Good, because we don’t have one. Go us.”

He finds the small metal container with his hand, and contorts his wrist to get a grip on it. Erica moves toward the dishwasher to grab a replacement and make the process more seamless. Once Stiles has the container in his hand, he attempts to pull it off its holder, but it gets stuck. He jiggles it a bit, wincing at the awkward position his arm is in above his head. He takes his hand off of the metal, shaking the heat out before reaching up again.

“Stiles,” he hears Derek’s voice behind him, still in the ice cream section, his tone cautious.

“He speaks!” Stiles snaps, because he’s not that great a person and he can’t help it.

“Be careful,” the man says lowly. Stiles turns on the stool slightly, rage in his eyes as he faces him.

“What do you care?” He spits. He wraps his hand around the container and tries to pry it free again, motions jerky with anger. “That’s probably the first thing you’ve even said to me working here for what, a month? Let me do my job.”

“It doesn’t look stable,” Derek forces out, sounding constipated. “Just–”

“Derek, shut– _fuck_!”

Stiles nearly topples off the stool as one side of the container’s restraints gives way, but the other stays stuck; he stabilizes himself with one arm on the wall as the other holds the container in the air, hot grease pouring from the trap and onto his skin. He attempts to put the trap back into place, but it’s jammed. If he lets go, the grease will pour down onto his head, into the fryer, and all over the floor in one painful splash. He tightens his muscles and holds the trap where it is, a steady, yet the smallest possible, stream coming down onto his arm and trickling onto his neck and shoulder. He lets out a shout as his knees threaten to buckle.

Derek is under him in a second, ready to help him off, but Stiles kicks him feebly and tells him to get the fuck away. Erica rounds the corner, passing Tracy and Kira, who are on the radio with Laura and Lydia.

“Let the fuck go, Stilinski!” Erica shouts.

“I can’t!” He grits out, the grease still coming down. He hears footsteps thunder up the stairs, and Mason shout his name. Derek’s face, and Stiles assumes everyone else’s, is painted in a helpless horror. Stiles shouts again as he tightens his grip on the trap despite every message his nerves are sending to his brain. He forcefully pulls the trap free from its position, sending a splash of grease onto the grill and his wrist, and shoving it back into its holder. Immediately his shoulder screams like it’s prying itself out of his socket, and his skin hates the air more than anything in the world. He lets go completely and topples off of the step stool, Derek and Erica catching him and easing down into a sitting position, his back against the counter. His breaths are coming out fast and pained, sounds swirling around him as he struggles to keep his shock in check. He’s not bleeding, but he feels like he is; his entire arm is red and angry, trailing up to where his shoulder meets his neck. His shirt sleeve is saturated with still-hot grease. Someone gently rolls the sleeve up and away from his skin, but it almost feels worse. Stiles realizes people are talking around him, and he closes his eyes tightly as he shifts to sit up.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, one of the cooks just had an accident, I’ll be with you in just a minute–”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles, Lydia’s coming, I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

“ _Breathe_ , Batman,” Erica’s voice penetrates, and he focuses on her. “You’re alright. You did good, you’re gonna be fine.”

Stiles sees Lydia’s flame red hair come through the doorway of the front kitchen, shoving Mason aside. She comes right up to them and kneels down beside them.

“Hale, clean this up,” she orders Derek. “Stiles.”

“I fucked up,” Stiles attempts to laugh, but it just comes out strained and pained. His breath comes out stuttered on the exhale.

“You could say that,” Lydia smirks at him. “Good news, you’re gonna be okay. This happened a few years back, although it was _supposed_ to no longer be an issue. Bad news, hospital.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, but looking at the red skin on his arm, he kind of agrees. “The volleyball tournament.”

“Forget about that, you dumbass,” Lydia rolls her eyes at him. “Lahey’s due in an hour, plus, Mason doesn’t mind staying, does he?”

“Oh, of course not!” Mason’s voice comes from behind her. “Stiles, are you okay?”

“Listen, Stiles. I can either have an ambulance come, but you have to pay for it, or I can let you and Scott off early and he can take you to the hospital.”

“You gonna dock my pay?” Stiles asks jokingly. Lydia doesn’t even bother to respond. Of course they are. “Scott.”

“No problem, I’ll have him bring your car around.” Erica reaches into Stiles’ pocket and grabs his car keys, handing them to Lydia. “Don’t bother trying to clock out.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Stiles grunts.

Lydia gets up and Erica supports Stiles so that he can stand; he lists to the side a bit, but Derek is there, and holds him upright. Stiles jerks away from him as much that he can, stepping forward with Erica by his side.

“Stiles,” Derek says, but it’s soft. Scared.

“Just stop,” Stiles bites, too in pain to worry about being too harsh. He knows it’s his fault that the trap dislodged like that, but he can blame Derek as long as he can possibly stand. Which right now looks like awhile.

“I need a drink,” he groans as they walk through the back kitchen.

“With the look of you, you’ll be getting something better,” Danny muses, voice a little shaky despite his calm appearance.

“I haven’t had pain meds since sophomore year,” Stiles replies thoughtfully. “I miss them.”

Suddenly Scott is there, and Erica is making a trade-off; usually Stiles hates being manhandled, but he thinks that today he’ll let it slide.

“Hey buddy,” Scott says, wrapping Stiles’ good arm around his shoulder. “I brought the car around, we’ll go see mom. Shit, man.”

“Shit, man,” Stiles agrees. He nods, but that hurts his accessory muscles, so he stops and tries to keep still.

“Here,” a voice says before they get to the door, and damn it, it’s Derek. _Still._ He hands Scott a bottle of water. “He should drink it on the way.”

“That’s the longest strand of words I’ve ever heard you say at once,” Stiles spits. “and I’m gonna puke it back up _all over you_.”

Scott sighs. “Not now, Derek.”

He takes the water anyway and helps Stiles out the door and to the car. Stiles hisses as the wind hits his arm, and Scott offers assurances as the engine roars to life. He gives Lydia a jerky wave and speeds out of the nearly empty parking lot toward the hospital.

“Geez, okay, you’re gonna be okay,” Scott says, obviously torn between looking where he’s going and staring at Stiles’ arm. “What happened, exactly?”

Stiles shifts and groans, cradling his arm to his chest. “Fucking Derek Hale,” he growls. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want morphine.”

“We’ll see what mom says,” Scott replies, not mentioning Derek despite the look of confusion etched across his face. Stiles thunks his head back against the headrest, a shiver running across his body. He asks Scott to turn on the radio for the remainder of the short ride, and Scott concedes.

“Just one of those days, you know, Scotty?” Stiles asks, the pain adding a grit behind the words.

“Sure do,” Scott says, and keeps driving.

.

Stiles has to argue with Lydia over the phone for twenty minutes to get her to only make him take a week off work. He promises to wear his wrappings the entire time until the doctor clears him to take them off and to not even think about working the fryer or the mop in case his bandages get wet. They finally compromise on not letting him work longer than a six hour shift for the next two weeks, but Stiles signs up for extra shifts anyway, because he’s going _insane_.

“You’re a workaholic, you know that?” Scott says, putting a couple burgers on the grill out on the Stilinski’s back porch. Stiles is sitting in the doorway of the back sliding door, a beer in his good hand. He takes a swig of it as a response. “You got what, second degree burns on your arm, and you’re going back to work after a few days. You specifically asked for burgers tonight. You eat burgers every other day.”

“These burgers will be special, Scotty,” Stiles says. “You’re making them, and you’re gonna fuck them up so badly. Besides, I didn’t even pay for the emergency room visit. Work related injury.”

“You could sue the BHGC for this,” Scott points out, flipping a patty _too soon_.

“Oh yeah, I’ll just hire Jackon’s dad with the money I don’t have to sue the place his son’s girlfriend works at.” Stiles scoffs. “This isn’t a big town, Scott, people don’t sue people here, they engage in blood oaths and ‘I owe you one’s.”

“I still think you’re going back too soon.”

“What else am I supposed to do? I have to pay off student loans somehow, my left hand works fine, and I’m going out of my mind with boredom here.”

“We both know you’re not ambidextrous.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I can learn.”

“There’s no convincing you, is there.” Scott murmurs, scraping at some burnt remnants on the grill with a spatula.

“That’s right, kiddo, I’m the kid your math problems warned you about.” Stiles chugs the remainder of his beer, setting down on the wood of the porch. “I make bad decisions like replacing old grease traps and engaging in masochistic crushes on boys that probably eat lead paint for breakfast, and I have entirely too many beets in my fridge.”

“I’ve stopped in the kitchen a few times,” Scott mentions. “Derek’s been pretty–”

“Don’t tell me.” Stiles interjects. “Wait. I lied. I’m nosy, tell me everything.”

“He’s been pretty upset,” Scott says. “Or at least, I don’t know, sad looking. Sad looking on Derek sort of just looks like he’s gonna rip the steel counter out of the wall and swallow it, but you get my point.”

“So?” Stiles fidgets with his bandages. “He should be sad, he inadvertently sent the only person that would take out his trash for him to the hospital.”

“Literally everyone can see that he likes you except for you.”

“Maybe I don’t care!” Stiles crosses his arms, wincing a bit. “I’m done playing third grade, okay? I don’t care if he likes me, which he doesn’t, because even if he did, I don’t really like him. He’s not friendly and he snapped at Mason and he mixes up M&Ms and Skittles, and that’s really detrimental in an ice cream shop, they have completely different flavor profiles.”

Scott shakes his head and flips the burgers again. “He may be an ass, but you like him.”

“Let me live in denial for one day, Scott, please.” Stiles groans. “Stop pointing out my most grievous human flaws, I’m self aware, okay, I’m just ignoring them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott puts the burgers on their buns and hands a plate to Stiles. “Eat your slop.”

Stiles grimaces and takes a messy bite of his burger, cradling it in one hand.

It’s awful.

He spends the rest of his week off work essentially counting down the days until he goes back to work, because the only thing the time off has done for him is make it very clear that he has no hobbies. He can’t play Overwatch with only one hand, which makes him angry because he’s sure Scott is going to be better at it than him by the time he’s able to play again, and even the thought of reading a book makes him queasy after his last Literature class that past semester. He settles for catching up on Netflix series while eating chips, letting stray Ruffles stay on his shirt where they fall in his reclined position. He considers making an OkCupid just to pass the goddamn time, but quickly comes to terms with the fact that that’s just not happening.

“They’ve already made this joke,” Stiles mutters to himself, staring at the television screen. “You better make it one more time, or else you don’t get to call yourselves _comedians_.”

There’s a knock at his door suddenly, and Stiles moans, prying the remote from under his leg to pause his show. He trudges to the foyer, dragging his feet.

““Goddamnit, please just leave me alone let me and my gimp arm watch _Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt_ in peace.”

He opens the door, expecting Scott, or Kira, or Erica, or anyone, but instead sees Derek Hale on his welcome mat. He considers slamming the door, but his libido gets the better of him. Damn you, Scott.

“Scott said you liked Reese’s, so,” Derek says quietly, gesturing to the bag of peanut butter cups in his hands. Stiles reaches out and takes the bag with his good hand, not changing the look of suspicion on his face.

“Why are you here?”

“Because,” Derek forces out, and quickly begins speaking again when he sees Stiles’ eyebrows raise. “I wanted to apologize. About the other day. I distracted you, and you got hurt, and I. Sorry.”

Stiles shifts the bag of peanut butter cups in his hand, two of his fingers still wrapped around the door. “Am I supposed to believe that you suddenly care now?”

Derek looks down at the ground, a soft “ _fuck”_ coming out under his breath. “I. I know I haven’t been very nice, or friendly, at work, I mean–”

“Oh no, you’ve been winning Miss Congeniality in our weekly polls for weeks now,” Stiles sneers, because he can’t help it. “It’s because of your cheery smile.”

“This isn’t–” Derek is having trouble formulating words, his face flustered and red. Stiles wishes he wasn’t wearing an old white t shirt with obvious grease stains on it, and that he’d looked in the mirror to check his hair. “This is all wrong. I meant to – I’m sorry.”

Stiles feels a wave of weakness wash over him, and his face softens. “Look, man. It’s okay. I’m okay. I just don’t think I’m the one you should be apologizing to.”

Derek looks up at him with wide eyes (well, wider eyes. His facial expressions are a little limited), open in questioning.

“You said some not cool stuff to Mason the other day,” Stiles continues, and Derek’s expression drops. “And I don’t know why, it’s none of my business why, but he’s just a kid trying to do right there. So uh, maybe try to do right by him, okay? No one wants to hate you.”

Derek nods ever so slightly, his eyes trained at a crack in the front porch. Stiles grins softly, probably the best he can muster.

“Thanks for the Reese’s, Derek,” he says, beginning to close the door. “See you at work.”

He shuts the door softly and retreats back to his safe haven of a sofa, totally not watching through the curtains as Derek walks slowly back to his car and drives away. Stiles turns his show back on, staring right through the screen, eats approximately half of the Reese’s, and takes a fucking nap.

.

His first day back on the job receives him kindly; he comes in for a five-hour shift at eleven and is greeted by Isaac and Erica, with the promise of Boyd coming in at two. The ice cream side has a bunch of girls Stiles doesn’t talk to and Kira; Derek has the day off, Mason isn’t scheduled to come in until he leaves, and Scott comes through the kitchen building to check on him every hour. Lydia grants him amnesty to eat as much as he wants and the Mets game is playing on the dining room television. It’s perfect.

They take their positions in the kitchen alcove, with Boyd in the back and Erica and Stiles switched so he can work baskets. Isaac makes fun of him for a whole of ten minutes before Stiles puts the Cajun spice in his soda. It’s a good, easy day.

“Fries! Fries! Fries! Fries!” they chant, watching the reader as it rings through an order.

Erica picks it up and sighs. “Three Caesar salads with chicken.”

“Fuuuuuuck.”

“You know,” Stiles muses, picking a bit at the bandages on his arm. “I like baskets. I like pickles, and I feel powerful.”

“Don’t get used to it, Stilinski,” Erica bites, walking into the back room to grab chicken tenders. “Soon you’ll be back doing this grunt work, and I’ll take back my rightful throne.”

“Do you think there’s an Erica in every position?” Isaac asks. “I want to know if anyone else lives under a dictatorship like we do.”

“I think Kira is a benevolent god,” Stiles says. “Allison definitely has the back thriving.”

“Scott’s probably the king of the rock wall.”

“No I’m not,” Scott interrupts, walking into the kitchen as if on cue like he always does. “Hayden has it all locked down, I just show kids how to put harnesses on and get hit with softballs.”

“And you do it very well,” Stiles patronizes. Scott squints his eyes at him.

“What about the go-karts?” Erica asks, walking back with bags of chicken in hand.

“I’ve never seen a go-kart in my life.”

“And we all know that Lydia will never hand over the arcade, so that’s not even worth arguing,” Isaac inputs. Scott smiles and grabs a water bottle, waving to everyone as he leaves to face the hot sun again.

Stiles follows Isaac’s eyes to Scott’s retreating form, lips curling open in realization and exasperation at the fond look on Isaac’s face.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Stiles spits. Isaac looks back at him, eyes wide. “I’d say go fuck them both, but Scott has another girlfriend now, so pine from afar and shut up.”

Isaac looks caught. “I mean, that’s what I was…”

“Shut up.”

Erica laughs out loud, and tells Isaac to make three orders of mozzarella sticks.

Stiles is walking into the back to clock out when Mason walks in, water bottle in hand. Stiles should probably hydrate and not just drink Mountain Dew, but this is the life he’s chosen for himself. Mason looks surprised and happy to see him, and bounds up to him in two short puppy steps.

“Stiles! You’re back!” He’s beaming, and puts down the water bottle on the counter to give Stiles a hug. Stiles accepts, patting the other man’s back with his good hand. “I’m so glad you’re okay. We’ve missed you!”

Stiles smiles. “Thanks, buddy. Glad to see you’re looking alright too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mason shrugs as Stiles goes to clock out. “Things are good. I was real upset you got hurt, but Scott told me everything was fine and you’d be coming back soon.”

“Almost all healed up,” Stiles pats his bandages. “Don’t think I’ll gain any superpowers though.”

“Oh man, that sucks,” Mason replies, and then pauses for a minute. “Derek apologized to me a few days ago for being a dick. Which he had been, a dick. I thought maybe you had something to do with that.”

Stiles blinks, unsure of how to respond. “If he said it, I hope he meant it.”

“I think he did,” Mason nods. “He’s actually been pretty good, here, I mean. He feels bad for you getting hurt, and I do blame him a little bit, but he said he apologized to you, too.”

“He did.”

“Well, good.” Mason smiles again. “I’m really glad to see you’re okay, Stiles. Get some rest.”

Stiles smiles softly in thanks, grabbing his wallet and exiting the building. He shakes himself out, washing away the barrage of feelings in his chest, and walks over to the arcade building to pick up his paycheck. He opens the door, shrinking in on himself at the barrage of loud music and sound effects coming from pre-pubescent monsters fighting for prizes.

There are two girls at the prize counter, both leaning on separate corners of the display case and looking equally uninterested. One Stiles knows, Malia and him having had dated in high school and still being friends through Lydia and Kira. The other girl is all olive skin, dark hair, and serious eyebrows, looking bored out of her mind.

“Hey, Malia,” he greets, strolling up to the counter. “Is Lydia in her office?”

“Yeah, but she’s with Jackson,” Malia shrugs. “I’m not going to bother her. Want a bouncey ball?”

“Aw, fuck yeah,” Stiles says, and Malia hands him a blue marbled rubber ball. “You’d think they’d at least put a sock on the door. What do I owe you for this?”

“I’ll just steal fries next time you’re working, don’t worry about it,” Malia shrugs. “Do you need your paycheck?”

“Yep, on my way out. I don’t particularly want to walk in on something I would need bleach to remove from my eyes, so I’ll just hang here until they’re done.”

“Sorry, Stiles, there’s a ten-dollar fee for hanging out in front of the counter.”

Stiles balks. “You just gave me a free bouncey ball!”

“So this is Stiles?” the other girl asks, leaning back against the wall now. She looks him up and down without uncrossing her arms or broadcasting any specific emotion. “Hmm.”

Before Stiles can feel offended, Laura walks out of the door leading to the attic and spots him at the desk.

“Do you need your paycheck, Stiles?” she asks, and he nods. She waves him back behind the counter, lifting up the divide. “I’ll get Lydia for you. God, Cora, at least _look_ like you’re working, will you?”

Stiles tries to wrap his brain around _hmm_ and _Cora_ and _three Hales_ , following Laura mindlessly to Lydia’s office. Thankfully, when they knock Lydia opens the door within seconds, Jackson simply lounging in a chair in the corner on his phone.

“What do you want, Stiles?” Lydia asks, already walking back to her computer.

“I’m giving my two weeks’ notice,” he deadpans, stepping inside and being careful not to interact with anything Jackson may have touched.

“No you’re not,” she says right back, grabbing his paycheck from a box on her desk and handing it to him. “Here’s for before you got hurt. I’m allowing you to take Saturday’s shift, but if you exert yourself or one inch of those bandages get wet, I’m sending you home without pay.”

“Yes, mom,” Stiles groans, walking out the door. Laura smiles.

“And get direct deposit, already.”

“Can’t, I’m stuck in the past,” Stiles remarks. “You know, one of these days I’m really going to mean it.”

“Sure you are, sweetie.” Lydia smiles and closes the door on him, making sure the audible lock of her door is heard loud and clear. Stiles hears Jackson say something, but it’s low and muffled, and he doesn’t give a shit, so he pockets his check and leaves.

Laura wishes him a good rest of his day, and Malia gives him a small smile as he walks out of the arcade. Cora just stares at him as he goes, eyes calculating and a cold smirk on her face. Stiles walks to his car and tries not to think about it.

.

Derek is working when he comes in the next day, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Nothing really changes, but the morning holds a camp trip that has every staff member going on overdrive. It doesn’t help that because of his bandages Stiles gets saddled back in pizza, prepping and pumping out pies like there’s no tomorrow. He thinks about swearing off pizza forever by the time the camp is done at two and leaves, but then he remembers Hawaiian exists, and retracts his mental statement.

Things slow down after that, but Stiles makes no real move to go to the front and possibly interact with other people, because he’s chicken shit. Since Mason told him that Derek had sincerely apologized, the impenetrable fondness had begun growing again in his chest, no matter how much he tries to stamp it down. He had gone home the night before and eaten the remainder of the Reese’s Derek had given him, extra delicious since he’d stuck them in the freezer. Part of Stiles was still mad, but most of him was wooed and horny, and angry and horny were two emotions he felt on the regular, and often in tandem.

Eventually he stops wallowing in his misery when he hears a “Stilinski, come see this” from Erica in the front, and he walks carefully into the alcove. Somehow Erica has managed to get Wipeout on the dining room television, and is ugly laughing at people getting knocked off of platforms while Danny and Isaac watch, smiling. Stiles exhales audibly in a laugh when a guy gets clothes-lined by a padded bar, sending him flying into the water. Isaac snorts and Danny covers his mouth.

“Glad to see you’re all having fun,” a voice says, and Stiles turns to see Malia leaning up against the doorway from the dining room to the kitchen. “I’m here for my fries.”

“Fries, coming right up,” Stiles smiles. “Chili cheese?”

“You know me.”

“Isaac, make the nice lady some fries,” Stiles says, looking at Isaac, who is frozen and staring at Malia like he’s never seen a human before. Isaac glances at him, and Stiles holds up his bandaged arm. “Wounded, here.”

“Yeah, uh, okay,” Isaac says, reaching into the drawer to dump the fries into the fryer. Malia hums, peering in to look at the rest of the kitchen building. Stiles walks to the soda machine and gets her a root beer, handing it to her casually. She beams at him, and then cocks an eyebrow, looking at Derek, who’s washing the dishes.

She turns to Erica. “So is that the guy that wants to jump Stiles’ bones?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles moans, dramatically falling onto the counter. “Will you witches never _cease_? Erica, why have you been spreading these lies?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Erica shrugs. “Must be as obvious as it _is_.”

“Cora was talking about her brother being all moody over someone at work, and then acted weird when you were in the arcade yesterday, so I figured it was you,” Malia says, taking a sip of her root beer.

“What an amazing detective,” Stiles mumbles.

“Well,” Malia says, looking over at Derek again. “He’s hot. I approve.”

Something old stirs within Stiles, and Malia looks so earnest for a moment that all he can do is look at her. “Thanks.”

“Chili cheese fries for our special guest,” Isaac exclaims, brandishing an overly full basket of fries drowned in chili and cheese. Malia smiles widely, taking it in one hand.

“Thanks!” she says, smiling at Isaac, and Isaac nods, swallowing excess saliva or some shit. Malia jerkily waves with her elbow, hands full as she wishes everyone goodbye and hip checks the dining room door to get it to open on her way out. Stiles goes back to watching Wipeout, but it’s just the two hosts talking, and the volume isn’t even on.

“We should hang out with her more,” Isaac says, still staring at the door.

“Ah, and the game of how many people can Isaac fall in love with at once continues on strong,” Erica snides. “What are we at now, four?”

“Five if you count Chloe Grace Mortez,” Stiles says. “Seriously, dude, why can’t you just like Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie like everyone else?”

“Or Joseph Gordon Levitt,” Danny offers, and Stiles shrugs.

“I’m more of a fan of Chris Pine, myself.”

“C’mon, guys, I mean,” Isaac stammers. “I can have _friends_ , okay–”

“Who wants a mistake sundae?” Kira shouts from the other end of the building. All of them immediately clamor over themselves, pushing each other out of the way to get to Kira first. Stiles quite literally shoves Erica into the Italian ice freezer, stopping in front of Kira.

“I win!” he exclaims. “Give me my prize.”

Kira smiles at him, handing him a _perfectly good_ sundae that just had hard ice cream instead of soft serve, what he _prefers_ , thank you very much. Stiles beams and then realizes that he’s right next to Derek, who’s holding a dirty ice cream scoop in each hand, running them under the sink, staring at him. Stiles flushes and feels awkward.

“I, uh,” Stiles glances at the clock and decides it’s a good time to take his break. “I’m gonna go, uh, eat this in my office.”

He runs away like the coward he is, ducking through the break room and then down the stairs to the supply basement. He walks through the shelves of condiments and ice cream toppings, settling into a chair they have hidden behind the shelf of hot fudge.

“Hey, Harold,” he says to the resident beetle chilling out on a neighboring shelf, stuffing a spoonful of sundae into his mouth. Harold looks hungry, so he plucks a candied walnut off of the top of the sundae and puts it next to the bug. “Now we’re having lunch together. Maybe later I’ll vent to you about the miseries of my heart.”

“This is your office?” a deep voice asks, and Stiles startles in his seat, blanching when he realizes Derek has come down the stairs and is staring at him with an eyebrow raised. Stiles straightens up in his chair and scooches a bit, hoping Derek doesn’t see his gummy bear stash or the picture of Finstock Scott and him turned into a dartboard on the wall.

“Yes,” Stiles replies, trying to sound sure of himself. “I get very official and important work done here.”

“I’m sure.”

“Uh, well, if you’re looking for cups or something, they’re behind the bowls over there. Next to the cones.”

“I’m not looking for cups,” Derek says, eyebrows furrowed.

“The maraschino cherries are next to the candy. I know they should be refrigerated, but no one ever listens to the voice of reason that is me, so–”

“I’m not looking for cherries, either,” Derek frowns, and rubs the back of his neck, flexing it a bit in a nervous gesture. Stiles thinks it’s adorable. “I wanted to…talk to you.”

“That sounds like it hurts,” Stiles says, and Derek frowns harder. “Uh. What do you wanna talk about?”

“I apologized to Mason.” Derek exclaims.

“I know,” Stiles sets his sundae down on the nearest shelf, above Harold so the bug won’t steal his prize. “He told me. That was good of you.”

Derek blushes ( _blushes_?) and takes a small step closer. “I did it…I did it because of you.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to frown. “I didn’t want you to apologize because I told you to.”

“No, I–” Derek pauses. “I apologized because I was in the wrong, and I wanted to. I flipped out on him. Because of you.”

“What did I do?” Stiles asks. Derek takes a hand and gestures to Stiles’ whole self. “Use your words, big guy.”

“I, he, Mason was talking about this big crush he has on you, and you two were getting along so well together, and,” Derek grits his teeth. “I got jealous.”

“Jealous?” Stiles repeats, incredulous. “You were jealous of Mason? He’s a kid!”

“He’s eighteen,” Derek says. “And I’m 24, and you’re right in the middle. Yes, I was jealous of him.”

Stiles has to pause for a second to wrap his head around it. “Why?”

Derek groans. “Because I like you, you idiot.”

“Sure do a great job showing it,” Stiles scoffs. “You’ve hated me since day one.”

“You’re annoying,” Derek says, wrinkling his nose.

“Thanks.”

“And distracting.”

“Really doing a great job here.”

“And you just _stand there_ , with your hat backwards–”

Stiles stands up, voice harsh. “Well you just stand there, flexing your muscles scooping fucking ice cream.”

“And you do nice things, like take out our trash–”

“Smiling at the register, giving little kids free samples–”

“Your laugh is so goddamn loud and infectious, I can’t work–”

“Fucking getting along with my friends, who the fuck do you think–”

“I’m trying to tell you like you–”

“Well I’m trying to–”

Derek suddenly breaks the stride between them and brings his face right up to Stiles. His lips stop a right in front of Stiles’ for a fraction of a second before Stiles meets them, his mouth slightly open as it meets Derek’s. Derek’s tongue immediately finds its way past Stiles’ lips and Stiles falls back a step, supporting himself on the rod of a shelving unit. Derek’s hand goes to Stiles’ lower back and pulls him slightly back toward him, lips parting in the kiss and allowing Stiles access. Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulder and kisses him harder, falling into a rhythm. Stiles has never been good at music, but damn, Derek knows what he’s doing and this was a song Stiles likes to sing.

In a break in the rhythm, Stiles jerks his head back. Derek’s eyebrows furrow. “Wait,” Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about you. Where did you go to school?”

Derek leans forward and kisses him deeply again before parting. “I graduated from UC Davis this spring with a BA in history.”

Stiles kisses him as soon as he’s done speaking, closing his eyes before fluttering them open again. “I’m going to be a junior at Berkley. Criminal justice and forensics.”

Derek kisses him again and Stiles has to stumble back another step. Derek catches him. “I like old movies.”

Derek licks the inside of his mouth and Stiles is _thriving_. “I love a good _Singing in the Rain_.”

Stiles bites Derek’s bottom lip and the other man makes an ungodly noise. “There’s a festival near Sacramento,” Derek says. “Come with me.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and Derek steals whatever breath is left in his mouth. They end up against the wall of the basement, making out for all the condiments and Harold the beetle to see. Stiles runs a hand through Derek’s hair and Derek grabs his hip, his thumb peeking below Stiles’ tee shirt and pressing into his skin. Eventually there’s a sound behind Derek and they both freeze, separating slightly and looking toward the offending noise.

Erica is standing at the bottom of the stairs, eyebrow raised and a box of relish packets in her hand. “Finally,” she says, and they both flush red. “Now get back to fucking work.”

.

One weekend in August most of them have the night off somehow (most likely from bartering with Lydia to saddle all the high school kids with the place for one night), and it’s Scott’s turn to choose something to do, so of course he brings them back to work. Beacon Hills is an empty trash town.

“I am the champion!” Stiles cries, brandishing his golf club above his head in victory. Derek and Erica scoff, while Kira giggles at him, fingers entwined with Scott’s as his arm is draped over her shoulder. Isaac frowns and attempts to shove him into the water, but Stiles dodges and hides behind Boyd, who promptly steps out of the way. “No violence toward the champion! The champion does not appreciate your advances!”

“The champion seems a little sure of himself,” Derek says, and Stiles pouts.

“The champion is giving you all alcohol later, so I’d change your tunes,” Stiles says. Derek gives him a soft shove before wrapping his arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer. Stiles smiles, and Derek gives him a quick kiss before taking his golf club for him and walking to put it back on the rack.

“Ugh, gross,” Erica groans. “I take it back, you both should both be single forever.”

“Oh, shut up, Erica,” Isaac says. “You’re such a hypocrite.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erica says, kissing Boyd. Boyd hums, soft and low.

“Don’t worry, Isaac,” Kira offers. “Allison and Malia are going to come over with us to Stiles’ house after their shifts.”

“Yeah, you can effectively fail to flirt with both of them,” Stiles says. “Lots to look forward to.”

“Someone buy me ice cream,” Isaac mopes, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m sad.”

Kira ultimately takes pity on Isaac and buys him a milkshake. Stiles orders mozzarella sticks while Derek gets a grilled chicken sandwich, and they all pile into the dining room to wait for their food. They all make light fun of Danny and Mason in the kitchen, until Danny turns the television channel to the Disney channel and tells them all to go home for once. Mason smiles at Stiles when he hands him his food, soft and understanding, and waves at Derek as he passes into the back room to get Erica’s vegetable pizza. They all go outside and sit around one of the fire pits, welcoming Malia and Allison as they get off their shifts, snuggling in and sharing communal fries. Even Lydia stops by for a few minutes, chatting with everyone and warning them not to burn down her facility before stealing food and making her way toward the bar area.

They start playing relaxed versions of sleepover games, despite Erica’s protests. Whenever someone says something dumb Malia and Stiles start flinging French fry bits at them, which seems to appease Erica, and she joins in with the remnants of Boyd’s chicken tenders.

“Flight or super-hearing?” Allison offers.

“Flight,” Stiles says, stuffing a mozzarella stick into his mouth. Derek offers him a broken off piece of bacon from his sandwich, and he takes it. “I don’t want no superhearing. I have no desire to know what goes on in the walk-in.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Erica sneers. “I know what you two do. Disgusting.”

“Obviously, you’ve chosen the superhearing,” Derek says, and Erica laughs out of her nose.

“I’m gonna tell Lydia that you all have sex in the kitchen building,” Malia says seriously, and everyone looks at her. She blinks. “Kidding.”

“Okay, uh,” Isaac scratches the back of his head. “No more bookstores in the world, or no more sex?”

“That’s so dumb,” Malia says, but she’s smiling.

“Definitely no more bookstores,” Scott says, maybe a little too fast. Everyone looks at him. “What? We have the internet now.” Kira kisses him on the cheek.

“I don’t know,” Derek muses gruffly. “I think I’d pick the bookstores.”

Stiles gapes at him, affronted. “What do you _mean_?”

“I mean bookstores fulfill me,” Derek says, deadpan, but everyone bursts out laughing. Derek presses his nose into Stiles’ hair, kissing him on the temple. Butterflies erupt in Stiles’ chest and escape into the air, like embers flying up with smoke into the sky.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters, and settles deeper into Derek’s side. Someone suggests they do something like this every weekend they can, especially when they’re home from school, and Stiles agrees. He could add this to his routine.

.

**Author's Note:**

> If you all want to come hang out with me on tumblr, follow themostexcellentfinder! I love friends
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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